About This Wild Song

This Wild Song (TWS) is a series of portraits and interviews with Australian women visual artists who have a unique voice.

The theme of the portraits is for the artist to become a part of their work. The photographs also hold the intention of creating an honest and true depiction of who the artist is as a person. Every portrait has a specific concept created for the artist, and significance is placed on all elements within the photograph in relation to the artist and their practice.

TWS celebrates the strong female leaders in the arts community. Although the artists being featured are from varying backgrounds, use a diverse range of mediums, and at different stages of their arts career; they are unified by their unique voices and distinct style. The inclusion of so many artistic mediums in TWS offers a broad synopsis of contemporary Australian art.

The title for this project was inspired by Emma de Clario’s painting ‘If I keep a green bough in my heart, a singing bird will surely come’. The poetry from this piece can be read below.

If I keep a green bough in my heart, a singing bird will surely come

When I was a small child, my other mother wrote, on the kitchen wall in green chalk and perfect copperplate: If I keep a green bough in my heart a singing bird will surely come…

I would gaze at those words, until they were etched into my very bones. Now I am a woman and a mother, and I write to my daughter and tell her this:

Each happiness and every sorrow I have known, I have built around these words. I have been blind and tenacious in my insistence of the necessity of my own joy, and I have been willing to dive to extraordinary depths of disappointment and despair in order to investigate joys absence. For my whole life I have pruned and tended to the green bough in my heart, tenderly awaiting with grave anticipation the bird song that heralds the arrival of my own springtime.

I have only now just understood that it is in the tending to the bough where I have found my joy. My happiness has been in the maintenance of the sweetness in my daily life and in the faith that the singing bird is on its way to me.

When we find a place and call it home,

we name it: HOME, and we mark it: SACRED. And we charge it with our daily pleasures, and our ferocious protection, while tend to it we caress each corner. We sing to our homes gently, quietly, coaxing their walls toward happiness, blessedness and willing all that is within to shine from our commitment to them, our promises. With each act of Keeping House, each carefully arranged vase of flowers, each admiration of light through windows, light through open doors on to clean swept floors, with each full bowl of good steaming food, and with each sigh as the table is cleared, and the dishes done, We systematically cultivate our conviction that everything that is mercurial and serpentine will not enter our HOME and will not threaten the order, (and the light) that we have created there. In our secret hearts, we are longing. In our private selves, we are tired. Spent and un whole.

And as we nourish, we yearn, and dream and imagine, and yet we, most of us, stay.

We run in our minds eye: But we remain. Consistent. Reliable. Tenacious as warriors, proud and numb, we do not rest.

In our hearts, we harbour so much illusion and sadness and gratitude. Dreams that are compromised, sacrificed, dear wishes that are abandoned and then, reconstructed. Private.

And yet, each day we continue to keep the shelters, where our babies are, where we are, strong. Life giving.

Whole.

It is in this that we wrestle.

And yet; each day, throughout every generation, over each and every land, we are relentless, formidable.

Often, very often, we trip. Over. On our hearts. Over them. And fall. Each one of us.

And sometimes, But sometimes. Sometimes.

Perhaps…secretly, loudly, shamefully, proudly, resolutely, we may and do choose:

The Open Space.

The Wild Song. As The Wild Song is all around us… Always Whispering….humming…twirling to its own intention, and it is so unfaithful and so hard to ignore. But when it calls a name, your name; The Wild Song, it is unrelenting, and tenacious. Everything pales. And, all things still, to listen. And even the glorious light through the kitchen window becomes less golden. And our sprits, of their own accord begin to move and sway to The Wild Songs rhythm… And our minds twist and turn and circle in on themselves, and our hearts bend, like at no other time, and the presence of The Wild Song becomes a madness.

Desire becomes a madness. Freedom becomes a madness. The longing for self becomes a madness. Like no other madness. Like no other desire, like no other choice.

And we are asked to choose. And we know that this is madness. And so we watch with focused curiosity when others make The Leaving Choice. And Spreads Her Wings. And we curl with mirth. And we curl with envy. And even if ….. Even if, Even if…

We always do come back to our first-born’s breath. Their breath-rhythm, and we move with it. Gently. Wholly. Smiling. Regardless, regardless.

It is in every moment, each moment of that breath-rhythm, that we hold our faith.

And our faith is this: familial protection.

Let our sense of purpose, our huge and brave and magnificent choice of being inside our lives be so glorious, so fierce, so very bright, that everything Else, everything sinister will disappear and dissolve: Killed by our light.

Through our House Keeping, we believe our substantiality will afford us the simple gift, the earned honour of motherhood and all its responsibilities and faiths: that we may hold our own close, and feed them.

It is in this secret place Where we keep our joy, and in that our survival.

Do not lighten the weight we carry. It is our weight to carry, our bane to bare, our joy. Our measure. Our spirit- level. It ours. So don’t touch it.

Regardless. Regardless.

Do not threaten our hearts warmth. HOME. But do come, to ask for tea, food, mercy, of that that there is plenty, always, Regardless of our tiredness.

We cherish joy, generosity and gratitude.

I have taught my children:

If they keep a green bough in their hearts a singing bird will surely come, and to always listen for their own names in the whisperings of The Wild Song.

Rather than resist and grow weak, they may run and dance in its wildernesses, and I will take care of their children for them until they are ready again and the madness has passed, and The Wild Song is calling another name.

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About This Wild Song

This Wild Song (TWS) is a series of portraits and interviews with Australian women visual artists who have a unique voice.

The theme of the portraits is for the artist to become a part of their work. The photographs also hold the intention of creating an honest and true depiction of who the artist is as a person. Every portrait has a specific concept created for the artist, and significance is placed on all elements within the photograph in relation to the artist and their practice.

TWS celebrates the strong female leaders in the arts community. Although the artists being featured are from varying backgrounds, use a diverse range of mediums, and at different stages of their arts career; they are unified by their unique voices and distinct style. The inclusion of so many artistic mediums in TWS offers a broad synopsis of contemporary Australian art.

The title for this project was inspired by Emma de Clario’s painting ‘If I keep a green bough in my heart, a singing bird will surely come‘. The poetry from this piece can be read below.

If I keep a green bough in my heart, a singing bird will surely come

When I was a small child, my other mother wrote, on the kitchen wall in green chalk and perfect copperplate: If I keep a green bough in my heart a singing bird will surely come…

I would gaze at those words, until they were etched into my very bones. Now I am a woman and a mother, and I write to my daughter and tell her this:

Each happiness and every sorrow I have known, I have built around these words. I have been blind and tenacious in my insistence of the necessity of my own joy, and I have been willing to dive to extraordinary depths of disappointment and despair in order to investigate joys absence. For my whole life I have pruned and tended to the green bough in my heart, tenderly awaiting with grave anticipation the bird song that heralds the arrival of my own springtime.

I have only now just understood that it is in the tending to the bough where I have found my joy. My happiness has been in the maintenance of the sweetness in my daily life and in the faith that the singing bird is on its way to me.

When we find a place and call it home,

we name it: HOME, and we mark it: SACRED. And we charge it with our daily pleasures, and our ferocious protection, while tend to it we caress each corner. We sing to our homes gently, quietly, coaxing their walls toward happiness, blessedness and willing all that is within to shine from our commitment to them, our promises. With each act of Keeping House, each carefully arranged vase of flowers, each admiration of light through windows, light through open doors on to clean swept floors, with each full bowl of good steaming food, and with each sigh as the table is cleared, and the dishes done, We systematically cultivate our conviction that everything that is mercurial and serpentine will not enter our HOME and will not threaten the order, (and the light) that we have created there. In our secret hearts, we are longing. In our private selves, we are tired. Spent and un whole.

And as we nourish, we yearn, and dream and imagine, and yet we, most of us, stay.

We run in our minds eye: But we remain. Consistent. Reliable. Tenacious as warriors, proud and numb, we do not rest.

In our hearts, we harbour so much illusion and sadness and gratitude. Dreams that are compromised, sacrificed, dear wishes that are abandoned and then, reconstructed. Private.

And yet, each day we continue to keep the shelters, where our babies are, where we are, strong. Life giving.

Whole.

It is in this that we wrestle.

And yet; each day, throughout every generation, over each and every land, we are relentless, formidable.

Often, very often, we trip. Over. On our hearts. Over them. And fall. Each one of us.

And sometimes, But sometimes. Sometimes.

Perhaps…secretly, loudly, shamefully, proudly, resolutely, we may and do choose:

The Open Space.

The Wild Song. As The Wild Song is all around us… Always Whispering….humming…twirling to its own intention, and it is so unfaithful and so hard to ignore. But when it calls a name, your name; The Wild Song, it is unrelenting, and tenacious. Everything pales. And, all things still, to listen. And even the glorious light through the kitchen window becomes less golden. And our sprits, of their own accord begin to move and sway to The Wild Songs rhythm… And our minds twist and turn and circle in on themselves, and our hearts bend, like at no other time, and the presence of The Wild Song becomes a madness.

Desire becomes a madness. Freedom becomes a madness. The longing for self becomes a madness. Like no other madness. Like no other desire, like no other choice.

And we are asked to choose. And we know that this is madness. And so we watch with focused curiosity when others make The Leaving Choice. And Spreads Her Wings. And we curl with mirth. And we curl with envy. And even if ….. Even if, Even if…

We always do come back to our first-born’s breath. Their breath-rhythm, and we move with it. Gently. Wholly. Smiling. Regardless, regardless.

It is in every moment, each moment of that breath-rhythm, that we hold our faith.

And our faith is this: familial protection.

Let our sense of purpose, our huge and brave and magnificent choice of being inside our lives be so glorious, so fierce, so very bright, that everything Else, everything sinister will disappear and dissolve: Killed by our light.

Through our House Keeping, we believe our substantiality will afford us the simple gift, the earned honour of motherhood and all its responsibilities and faiths: that we may hold our own close, and feed them.

It is in this secret place Where we keep our joy, and in that our survival.

Do not lighten the weight we carry. It is our weight to carry, our bane to bare, our joy. Our measure. Our spirit- level. It ours. So don’t touch it.

Regardless. Regardless.

Do not threaten our hearts warmth. HOME. But do come, to ask for tea, food, mercy, of that that there is plenty, always, Regardless of our tiredness.

We cherish joy, generosity and gratitude.

I have taught my children:

If they keep a green bough in their hearts a singing bird will surely come, and to always listen for their own names in the whisperings of The Wild Song.

Rather than resist and grow weak, they may run and dance in its wildernesses, and I will take care of their children for them until they are ready again and the madness has passed, and The Wild Song is calling another name.